


With Whom the Fault Lies

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, M/M, Magic, Public Blow Jobs, Timeline - The War of Five Kings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Jon Snow was no longer the name of just another northern bastard, different only from the Flowers and Sands by the thickness of his blood to ward off the cold. No, he was now the King’s Pet, spoken of only in hushed whispers. King Joffrey had had a hound, now King Robb had a beast of his own. One he kept kneeling at his side.





	With Whom the Fault Lies

**Author's Note:**

> This is lowkey dark!Robb (but like not evil?) and there's some lowkey mentioned dubcon if you squint but it was not my intention to write that. That's just what happens when you mention sex vaguely, but don't actually say what was happening. Also Jon is lowkey a werewolf.

Ned Stark’s Bastard. The Lord of Winterfell’s One Mistake. Robb Stark’s Shadow. Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, had been called many things other than his name throughout his life. None of them had suited him, even his own name felt strange on his tongue, like it wasn’t quite right. Perhaps because of it being used so little, perhaps because of something else. Now, as his brother sat upon the throne of winter to lord over all the North, hailed as king by his people, there was yet another name those same people bestowed upon him. Jon Snow was no longer the name of just another northern bastard, different only from the Flowers and Sands by the thickness of his blood to ward off the cold. No, he was now the King’s Pet, spoken of only in hushed whispers.

King Joffrey had had a hound, now King Robb had a beast of his own. One he kept kneeling at his side. Jon didn’t mind his knew position on a pile of furs beside Robb’s throne, the king's hand in his hair to scratch at his scalp and pet him like a beloved pet. There was no other man he would kneel for. And indeed, he greatly enjoyed the way people would look at him when coming to see their King. Wary, as if he was something to be feared. Of course, he was, with his nails like claws and too-sharp teeth only shown when he revealed a predatory grin. The hint of red sometimes flashing in his eyes was enough to freeze even the hardiest of northern men with fear. They would spare no glace to Jon’s own beast, a great white direwolf that would sometimes take its place on the furs beside him. No, it was Jon that froze their voices in their throats, and set them to shaking from something other than the cold.

Robb would sometimes find himself tightening his grip in Jon’s hair to keep him still, in place, to make him _behave_ , like he really was just some wild wolf, so that his subjects would approach and speak of what matters they had come for. Jon would growl when someone presumed to get too close, a sound so animalistic and primal that no man should have been able to make it. Some would search the hall with their eyes, expecting to see Ghost hiding in the shadows when he could not be found at Jon’s side, because surely it was that beast making such an inhuman sound. In their hearts, they knew the truth; that it wasn’t Ghost, that Jon Snow was something more than just a man.

***

“My sweet beast,” Robb murmured, carding his fingers through Jon’s mess of charcoal curls. “So terrifying to everyone but me.” Brown eyes, tinged with just a touch of crimson, looked up from between his spread thighs, Jon unable to respond past Robb’s cock in his mouth.

Such a faithful creature his dear Jon was, easily— _eagerly_ —complying with any and all of his perversions. He hadn’t been able to turn Robb away the first time Robb had come to him, the taste of wine heady on his tongue, blue yes burning with lust and callused hands too rough on Jon’s alabaster body. Not that he would have refused, no better than Robb had been with a tipsy flush on his otherwise pale features. It could be said that wine made every bad idea seem like the best decision; such a thing had certainly been true that night and well into the morning. For Jon there could be no blame; he was a bastard born in lust, in would only make sense that he should be driven to obey his own desires, damn the consequences. But Robb, the son of a proud lady and noble man, should have had honor enough to pull himself away, instead pulling at Jon’s clothes, his hair, wanting him _closer_ not farther away.

Any bruises and stiffness the next day could easily be explained away by the cold, or late-night sword practice to relieve tension before bed. Excuses his family easily swallowed like the sweet poison it was, all the while he would smile at Jon across the hall, watch him duck his head in shame. Robb prodded at the prospect of shame, only to soon determine it was not worth his time. Let him succumb to lust and desire the way Theon always encouraged, until he’d had his fill of Jon. There was nothing that posed enough reason for him to do anything else; he was not the lord of Winterfell yet. He was a young man, and young man had dalliances that were better kept hidden anyway. He was not betrothed to some noble lady, to whom he had to remain faithful.

It was only to himself that he should be faithful, and so he was, chasing after Jon on much the same manner Theon might chase after some serving girl's skirt. Robb could find more than a touch of sympathy in his heart for Theon when he had Jon pushed up against the wall in an empty room, one hand down his trousers while the other covered his mouth to keep his sweet voice muffled, as much as Robb wanted to hear him. It wouldn’t do for some well-meaning servant to hear them while passing by, and report the strange sounds to his father. That would warrant a sword-drawn investigation, and surely, they would be caught. They had been heard once before, and Jon still blushed endearingly when the “ghosts of Winterfell” were mentioned. Robb only laughed along with Theon’s jokes of what the supposed ghosts were more likely to be, never confirming his storied theories however true they may be, but playing along nonetheless. He liked to see the distress on Jon’s features when he would think Robb about to reveal their trysts to the one person least likely to keep them secret.

Looking back, there was the possibility that the way Jon had turned out was entirely Robb’s doing. He was loyal to a fault, a trait he had always possessed. He could have been a Lannister, the way he held loyalty to family above duty and even honor, another thing he held close to his heart. No one would accuse Jon of honor now, not with the deplorable things Robb had made him do. Yes, his loss of the finer parts of humanity he’d once had could be traced back entirely to Robb. Treating his dear, loving brother—who would do anything, if it meant Robb would give him even just a scrap of kindness that he was so often denied—as if he were nothing more than a whore and an animal must have taken a toll on him.

When their father left for King’s Landing, with their sisters, Robb soon became the only one Jon could turn to for the kindness and affection he craved. Always Robb welcomed his brother into his arms—and into his bed—with harsh words laced with sweet ones like poison. He couldn’t help it when Jon was such a needy, desperate thing, begging always for more, more, more. Anything to please Robb, anything for his brother to praise him. Praise that more often than not came in the form of condescending smiles and demeaning pets, Robb cooing to Jon what a _good boy_ he was, speaking to him the way he might to Greywind. Jon lapped it up like the pet Robb treated him as, basking in it because it was _better than nothing_.

Robb should have seen that something was off, though not quite so far as _wrong--_ not yet, at least _\--_  when the war began. Jon was antsy, wishing for home as all of the men were, which was perhaps exactly why Robb wrote him off. Except, it wasn’t homesickness that was gnawing at him. Perhaps it was because while Jon shared Robb’s bed, but never stayed long enough for rest, or sleep--Robb wouldn't permit it, not here--that Robb couldn’t see the source of his homesickness. He couldn’t see the red in his eyes when he woke from too little sleep that was from more than just exhaustion. Perhaps if Robb had put his selfishness aside and looked past his own needs and desires, he would have seen Jon slowly unraveling, torn apart by his own claws.

If nothing else, he should have seen it on the battle field. The way Jon was just a little too wild-eyed, fighting with his teeth bared like a wolf, his technique sloppy compared to what they had grown up being taught, filthy to watch. Some compared him to the wolf that fought at his side, saying he did what would kill, not what was pretty. They said it in the tone of congratulating him, clapping him on the back and asking him to join them for celebratory drinks after each battle won. Robb could not see the way Jon’s hands sometimes shook, too filled with jealousy at Jon accepting praise from other’s than him to notice. Would he sleep with these strangers as well, let them touch him the way Robb had if it meant hearing more of their kind words? No, of course he wouldn’t, but Robb still sought to _remind_ Jon just who he belonged to anyway.

Jon grew accustomed to the ache in his teeth and the taste of blood on his tongue, and he wanted to go home. Back to Winterfell, with Theon’s biting remarks rather than his betrayal, back where Robb was unkind to him but never cruel. Where he was treated like a beloved pet, and not a worthless dog to be hit and spat on for things he could not understand doing wrong. He took to not sleeping for many nights in a row, until the exhaustion was enough to overcome him and send him falling unconscious to the cold ground. Even then he could find no peace, wrought with nightmares. He would wake elsewhere from where he had fallen, more often than not in his tent—and once in Robb’s, his body aching—but always alone, no one to comfort him or tell him why these things were happening. He may be of age, but he felt like a scared child, wishing for a mother to take away the hurt, or a brother to kill the monsters. Robb was only becoming one of many.

It was months into the war before Robb looked close enough to _see_ Jon. He had been fucking him—the only thing he saw Jon as useful for anymore, really, despite his quickly growing reputation as the best swordsman in the army—when Jon had gone a sickly pale despite the heat radiating off his skin. He was glassy eyed—though he had been for some time when Robb finally noticed, rarely was he ever present for these trysts of theirs anymore, instead taken by the recesses of his mind—and unresponsive. And then he began trembling, before full on convulsing. Robb had been horrified with no idea what to do, calling a healer by the name of Talisa to help him. There was nothing she could do but try to hold him steady with Robb’s assistance, the cause of this sudden seizure unknown.

Ghost came running in, growling, to grab Robb by his hastily pulled on pants and drag him away from Jon. Only when he was a safe distance away did Ghost bound onto the bed, pawing at Jon. His master came to panting, tears cascading down his cheeks as a red haze faded from his eyes. Ghost laid beside him, head resting on his chest, and Jon hugged him in relief. Jealousy sparked in Robb at the way Jon looked at Ghost, with the kind of love Jon had never shown him. He ordered Talisa out of the tent, and rounded on Jon, the order to explain already on his lips. But he could not put voice to it when he saw the way Jon clutched at Ghost like a scared child, face buried in his fur as he tried to calm himself down, still trembling. Robb instead went to him, hating the way Jon flinched when he touched him.

“What is happening to you?” Robb asked, sinking his hand into Jon’s curls, petting at him the way he always liked. Only he didn’t like it now, pulling away to regard Robb with red-rimmed, tired eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding so broken. He pushed Ghost off of him then, and got out of the bed in favor of dressing. When Robb saw he intended to leave, he tried to stop him, only to be crudely brushed off. Ghost growled fiercely at him when he attempted to reach for Jon again.

“Why are you acting this way?” he demanded to know. “You’ve changed.”

“And you’ve finally noticed,” Jon said coldly, lacing up his shirt. Any other time he would have stayed, Robb would have made him pay for speaking to him in such away. Now he rebuffed any attempt Robb made to keep him there, wanting to be away from this place and this man that had brought him pain more than anything else. Robb called after him as he left the tent, but he didn’t so much as flinch in acknowledgement.

***

Jon disappeared from the camp, unable to be found by anyone. He’d gone to find a band of wildlings; not to hunt them, but for answers. He did not know what was happening to him, but something told him one among them might. And indeed, he found his answer, words like _skinchanger_ and _warg_ still echoing in his mind when he returned weeks later. He had followed rumors of some supposed wedding between Robb and a Frey girl back to the twins in time to see the Frey’s betrayal. Jon could not remember much of what happened after, just that he woke to blood in his mouth and flesh beneath his nails, this time not an echo of Ghost’s hunting. He couldn’t say how many lives he had claimed, only that it was enough to put an end to the Frey name, and not enough to save his brother.

Outside the fighting raged, while inside Jon used an unholy kind of magic he hadn’t known he’d possessed—despite the ancient words coming easily to his tongue as if they belonged there—to rend Robb’s soul from whatever afterlife it had journeyed to, and forced it back into his body. The thought of leaving him to his death, of finally being free from him, never occurred to Jon. What was there for him, if not serving Robb?

With Ghost at his side and sharing his mind, Jon tore through the ranks of the Frey’s men with a fury unlike any other, no wound able to put an end to him. It was enough to change the tides, allowing another Stark victory. Robb fucked him after, both still covered in blood, the scent of death and mud clinging to their skin, and Jon had never loved him so much as he had in that moment.

Drunk on bloodlust and victory, Robb Stark’s army ran south like a swathe, tearing through Lannister men until they were finally forced into a truce; Robb did not wish to rule the south, he sought only the North’s freedom from it. With King Joffrey married to Sansa, a truce was struck, and Jon used the same unholy magic that had granted his young wolf life, to bestow death upon Joffrey scarcely a month after they returned home. Sansa ruled over the south in his stead, once her _beloved_ tyrant of a husband had been put to rest, along with his mother that had “fallen to melancholy” shortly after Joffrey’s death.

That is where this story now takes place, Jon sitting at Robb’s feet, in the shadow of his king. A remnant of his former self with nails like hardened claws and teeth like that of his direwolf, his once soft brown eyes now permanently tinged with just a bit of red that could be a trick of the light. Except there were no red lights in the hall. No, it was because sometime in the beginning of that great war, Jon’s very soul had twined with that of his beasts. He had been told of that happening, should he resist too long. Now, he lived half inside his wolf’s mind, his wolf in turn living inside his own. It was the cause of his transformation, his body changing in certain aspects to mirror its other half.

Jon never truly rested now. Awake, he was in his own body. Asleep, he inhabited Ghosts.

***

The kingdom should be at peace, now, a Stark in the North and a Stark ruling the South. Even still, there were those who cared little for what the high lords did, unaffected. Murders and rapers and treasonous bastards would always exist, and it fell on Jon hunt down the sheep that sought to defy the Kings rule like the big bad wolf he was. Just now, as Robb’s hand settled on the nape of his neck, finger’s idly playing with his hair, a peasant man spoke of a band of criminals that had come to terrorize the town he lived in.

“Why come to me, and not your lord?” Robb asked, pulling Jon closer with a tug on his hair. Jon went willingly, closing his eyes with a pleased hum, as he was gently pet in appreciation.

“He has been killed, your grace. Slain by these men, and his castle taken over.” The man, a simple farmer, was trying not to look at Jon. Likely a wise choice. It made Robb smile, and fist his hand in Jon’s hair, telling him what a good boy he was strictly for the purpose of drawing attention to him.

“How many are there?”

“I… I counted about thirty… Your Grace.”

Robb hummed, as if in thought, but really it was just pleasure at the way Jon sucked and licked at his cock, filthy and uncaring of their audience; it was no secret that they lay together, but no one would dare say anything about it to their king despite the abhorrence of it. And what’s more, what were the laws and morals of man to one that had surpassed even death? Jon, little brat that he was, had been edging Robb for what felt like hours as he saw to his subjects, but knowing that he was needed elsewhere now, he was instead trying to finally make Robb come. He did with a soft sigh, stroking Jon’s cheek.

“Take my brother with you,” he said to the farmer, still looking down at Jon, watching him lick the come off his plush lips with his pretty pink tongue. “I’m sure he can handle eradicating your rodent infestation.”

“It’s what I live for, Your Grace,” Jon murmured, pressing a kiss to the tip of Robb’s cock before tucking him back in his pants and standing. He turned to grin sharply at the farmer, the man almost quaking in fear as Jon licked his fangs. “Come on then,” he said, brushing past him to leave the hall. Robb watched with a grin of his own, eyes trained on Jon’s ass as he stalked out of the hall like the predator he was, Ghost soon flocking to his side. He couldn’t wait for Jon to return; it was always best when Robb got to have him after a hunt.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked it! Please tell me what you think about this style of fic/their characterization/etc, I'd really love some feedback on this!


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